


bitterXsweet

by orphan_account



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-01
Updated: 2009-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder wonders what it feels like..</p>
            </blockquote>





	bitterXsweet

**Author's Note:**

> \--old old old fic for the Heroes fandom.

Mohinder Suresh was a light sleeper.

He sighed heavily, sitting up in the bed. The body next to him was warm, silent, sleeping. He pursed his lips and ran his hands through his hair, careful not to disturb the other, though he knew how deeply the man slept.

It was easier than he thought it would be to get out of the bed. The man kept sleeping, unaware of the movement, his back turned to the stirring geneticist.

Mohinder sighed again, glaring at the clock that proclaimed the time to be a nice round three in the morning, and walked restlessly into the kitchen, not turning on the light. He preferred a darker atmosphere. It usually helped him think.

The downside to that was it didn’t help when he was thinking too much.

He thought about putting the kettle on, but didn’t want to wake his lover. The man had super human hearing, and while soft familiar footsteps around a dark apartment wouldn’t wake him, a bleating kettle would. Damn shame too - he’d kill for some chamomile.

Leaning against the counter, Mohinder pondered that. “Kill for” something. Would he really ever be desperate enough to kill for something? Probably not.

But, then, would he?

In the other room slept a man who had killed for things, selfishly destroying lives for his own betterment. While it was a fact he usually ignored, three twenty in the morning wouldn’t let him forget. There lay a man who was brutal enough to torture and destroy lives, laugh in the showers of blood, for the abilities he craved to make him “special”.

Special.

The word was something simple in itself. Something that is out of the ordinary, that is unique. Something different. Mohinder looked at the doorway to his bedroom. Was the man in there truly “special”? Had he killed enough to cement himself in that status?

Kill to be special. An interesting theory.

Would killing the killer make him special?

Mohinder closed his eyes tightly, his head back as he leaned heavily against the counter. It stood to reason that killing a special person would in turn make the killer special, didn’t it?

Of course not. That’s stupid. Killing is still killing. It doesn’t make you special.

...does it?

His eyes snapped open and rage suddenly filled his veins. He didn’t know why he was so angry. Perhaps it was the pain of guilt that still haunted him. Perhaps it was the stress of feeling useless, of being a mere plaything to a serial killer.

Whatever it was, it was powerful.

Without thinking, without feeling, he grabbed a knife from the drawer. Purposeful steps guided him into the room, next to the bed.

Next to the sleeping serial killer.

The point of the knife touched the man’s forehead just barely, moving a small piece of hair and trailing down his jaw line. It rested on the pale skin of the man’s throat, right above the jugular. It waited.

Mohinder watched it, entranced, as if his hand wasn’t controlling the knife, as if it were someone else guiding his movements. He could almost feel breath on his neck, a grip on his wrist, daring him to do it.

It was easy enough to imagine slicing the man’s throat open. Blood would soak the mattress entirely as he thrashed, bleeding out.

Unless he didn’t wake up. He’d quietly fade into nothing, the widening stain on the sheets the only clue.

But then, what if he did wake up? What if the pain, the bite of metal, woke him? Would he really thrash? Or would he center those beautiful eyes on Mohinder’s own, staring until the icy grip of death took the light from the centers? Would he kill Mohinder, furiously destroying his destroyer?

Would he beg?

Mohinder shuddered and the point did the same, nicking the skin just lightly, leaving a tiny, bloodless cut. He’d cut him just enough to bleed, leaving the vocal chords intact, and listen to that beautiful voice beg him for life. The moans of pain, the gasping…

The tears…

Breathing heavily, Mohinder tilted his head, staring at the knife where it met the skin. He wanted so badly to hear those words, to feel that power. He wanted to feel the words as they reverberated up the knife. He wouldn’t kill the man just yet… he wanted to watch him squirm.

Mohinder leaned close to the sleeping figure. God did he want it… To taste the fear, sweat and blood as his lips meet the man’s throat, delighting in his quick breath and scared voice, intoxicated by the heady surge of power, the blood in his own veins hot and moving fast…

The knife nicked the skin again, and blood sprang to the surface - just a little bit, just a pinpoint. Mohinder jumped back with a gasp, dropping the knife, as the man twitched, waking groggily.

“Wh-what…?”

Quickly Mohinder kicked the knife under the bed, freezing as the dark eyes move to him.

“What are you doing?” Sylar asked, voice just as groggy as his eyes.

“I-I couldn’t sleep,” Mohinder stammered quickly, shaking his head.

“Oh…” Sylar looked around the room, blinking half-open eyes confusedly. “Come back to bed then…”

Mohinder bit his lip, nodding. He made his way around the bed, sliding under the covers, trying to steady his breath, his heartbeat. Sylar turns onto his side again, settling in with a tired sigh. Mohinder stares at the ceiling, frozen, listening as Sylar’s breathing became steady and quiet.

He can still taste the bitter tang of imagined fear on his breath.


End file.
